


Always You

by MissJEDoe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Other, because i love them, hints of enjolras x grantaire, mostly feuilly x jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:29:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7361539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJEDoe/pseuds/MissJEDoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Feuilly are almost definitely together. Almost. Jean Prouvaire desperately, desperately wishes they weren't so sure about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always You

He and Bahorel were together. At least, they appeared together. They always appeared together.  
Jean Prouvaire pondered the meaning of these facts and was only faintly aware of the movement in their hair. Grantaire was braiding it.  
“Marius, the man was an idiot!”  
“It’s a difficult job – he couldn’t please anyone – ”  
Grantaire sighed and touched his friend’s cheek with the back of his finger, catching their attention. “Don’t you love it when it’s not me arguing?”  
Jehan laughed lightly and turned around on his lap. “I wouldn’t say I love it. I hate it less – is that the same as love?”  
Grantaire shrugged. “I hate wine less than poison but I don’t think I love it.”  
A gentle sadness settled on Jehan’s face. “How are you doing at the moment?” They asked, fixing Grantaire with a look which could not be lied to. The artist shrugged.  
“I’m not arguing. Which must account for something.”  
“Sobriety mutes you,” Jehan stated, trying and failing to hide the way they jumped at the sound of Feuilly’s voice. Grantaire smiled sadly. “Unfortunately for you I’d rather have you mute than in a morgue.”  
“But you love visiting graveyards.”  
“Not to visit my friends,” Jehan said, adding a laugh. “Silly R.”  
“Silly?” Joly echoed from the next seat. “You can do better than that, Prouvaire. Silly doesn’t begin to cover it.”  
Jehan would have bettered themself but Feuilly had just spoken up to argue with Enjolras and they couldn’t breathe – never mind form sentences. So they spent a moment just watching and trying to not glare at the way Bahorel grinned at the back of his head.  
The evening sun was fighting through the windows of the Musain and, unusually, this made the poet angry. It was cutting in a line along the length of the table, separating the ‘us’ from ‘them’. The poet, the artist and the doctor from their working man, leader and lovers – only the doctor didn’t mind.  
Jehan saw the stream of dancing light as a barrier more impossible than the journey from death back to life.  
Grantaire noticed the tension and started playing with his friend’s hair again, unwinding the last braid and starting again. This was as much for his own benefit as Jehan’s and they both knew it.  
Feuilly had stopped talking and had turned back to Bahorel. Grantaire looked up to watch them, hoping to find something to ease his friend’s pain – Jehan turned away again and stared at the wall.  
Bahorel and Feuilly were, at the very least, the best of friends. They spoke lowly to each other and shared jokes which no one else would understand. They spent most nights at the same house – in the same room and bed was anyone’s guess. They were, in that moment, teasing each other and paying no attention to anyone else.  
Grantaire sighed and forced himself to keep watching. It was that or watch Enjolras and he’d learned a long time ago that it was dangerous to look directly at the sun.  
Feuilly pushed his hand into his hair just as Jehan found the courage to look at him again. Grantaire felt the poet tense and put one arm around their waist.  
“I have you, Prouvaire,” he whispered, staring over their shoulder. So they both saw how Bahorel leaned in to whisper in Feuilly’s ear.  
Neither of them saw a kiss but there easily could have been one.  
“Jehan, do you want to go?” Grantaire asked, keeping his voice low and soft. “I’ll come with you.”  
“I’ll be alright,” Jehan muttered, tearing their eyes from Feuilly’s bright curls. “I’ll enjoy the walk.”  
“I know you will,” Grantaire said darkly, letting them go. “Hey. Let me know when you’re home, okay?”  
“Of course,” Jehan said, smiling and standing up. “Goodnight, everyone.”  
Neither of them were looking to see the way Feuilly’s eyes flashed to them.  
Jehan leaned down and kissed Grantaire’s cheek and then Joly’s and left, leaving Grantaire feeling too exposed for his liking.  
As such, Grantaire didn’t notice that Feuilly and Bahorel left immediately after Jehan.  
It was a good job that they did.  
Jehan had a dangerous habit of getting themselves lost, even when following the road back to the house they’d stayed at for years. This night was almost a disaster.  
They had convinced themselves that Feuilly and Bahorel had shared a kiss and that was the end of all hope for them – they were in love and Jean Prouvaire would rather be damned than ruin someone else’s happiness.  
Loneliness suited them, anyway. They didn’t have to explain to anyone when they left the house at half past one in the morning. They didn’t have to change their behaviour.  
“Jean Prouvaire!”  
Things happened too quickly for the disheartened poet to understand. They blinked once and their surroundings came into focus – and so did the imminent danger.  
A car, fewer than five feet away. The headlights were on and Jehan was standing in the middle of the narrow road, completely oblivious.  
Feuilly and Bahorel had taken it upon themselves to keep a watchful eye over Jehan – a task which usually went unnoticed. They’d seen Jehan step out into the road and stop – and they’d seen the car speeding towards them.  
Feuilly had leapt at them and practically lifted them from the ground, firing them into the wall of the building on the other side of the road. Bahorel had shouted their name.  
The car drove past.  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Feuilly yelled, spinning Jehan and making them look at him. The shock and terror had given Jehan an unusual taste of contempt and they just stared. “You can’t just fucking walk into fucking roads in the middle of the fucking night – you’ll get killed!”  
Jehan blinked. Bahorel had joined them now and Feuilly was shaking. They noticed, now, that the sky was clouded over.  
Maybe that was why they were feeling so low.  
“Thanks for pushing me away,” they managed, freeing themselves and turning to continue their aimless walk. Feuilly muttered something.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Yeah. Goodnight, Feuilly – Bahorel.”  
Uncharacteristically short and crisp from the poet. Bahorel and Feuilly shared a look and chased after them.  
“Have I done something wrong?” Feuilly asked, catching up with Jehan and walking beside them. “Tell me.”  
“You’ve done nothing – leave me alone.”  
“I’m not convinced that you’re not going to do something ridiculous.”  
“I am ridiculous,” Jehan hissed. “Let me carry on with my ridiculous life how I choose.”  
Feuilly hesitated. “Jehan, I thought for a moment that you were trying to get run over.”  
Jehan stopped suddenly and looked up at the sky again. Still cloudy. What Feuilly had said would make a lot of sense, except, “If I was it was a subconscious decision.”  
Feuilly, understandably, panicked. “Jehan, let me take you home.”  
“I’m not going home yet.”  
“No, you’re coming home with me.”  
“I don’t want to be with you two.”  
They shared a look. And Bahorel spoke up now, stepping a bit closer. “Prouvaire, have I done something to upset you?”  
They shook their head. “I’m just upset at the world.”  
“What has the world done?” Feuilly asked, taking Jehan’s hand rather suddenly. “Tell me so I can fight against it and fix it for you.”  
All Jehan could see was the two of them curled together in some imaged scene of love and lust –   
“Nothing,” Jehan said robotically. “Let me go.”  
Feuilly stood firm. “Let me help you, Jehan.”  
Jehan glared and their nostrils flared. “You really want to know?”  
“Of course I do,” Feuilly breathed. “You’re my friend.”  
That hurt.  
“I’m in love,” Jehan said quickly, finally freeing their hand. “And it will not be returned. So you can’t help – ”  
“Who is it?”  
“It wouldn’t help,” Jehan snapped. “I’m going home. Thank you for pushing me away from the car.”  
Feuilly was stunned. “Prouvaire?”  
They looked at him and, for a moment, the fear-induced rage was shaken.  
“Be careful, Jehan. Take care of yourself.”  
Jehan nodded and turned away, walking as quickly as they could in any direction which was away.  
Jean Prouvaire didn’t get home until almost two am. They wandered through the streets and thought about how horribly unfair everything was – about how much lovelier it would be to never have to see another person again.  
But Joly had text them, worried.  
So they returned to safety and spent the next day reading. It was raining outside, anyway. Nothing to do except find the most painless way to continue to exist.

Jehan was sitting on Grantaire’s lap as usual, holding the artist’s hands so they didn’t do anything the rest of him might regret. He was still sober. Still struggling. And Enjolras was still antagonising him without realising it.  
So Jehan’s attentions were diverted towards looking after their friend. They ignored the politics of the evening and focussed on soothing Grantaire as each of the low moods hit him in successive cycles.  
They hadn’t even noticed that Feuilly and Bahorel had arrived separately.  
Not until they reached the informal part of the evening – the time when Grantaire would really start to feel low. Fortunately, something happened to shake the artist and the poet.  
Bahorel got a phone call and left suddenly, leaping from his chair and thundering down the stairs. Jehan looked up from Grantaire’s hands for the first time that evening and felt their eyes irrevocably and predictably locked onto the freckles that danced below Feuilly’s eyes.  
Feuilly rolled these eyes and addressed the group. “He has a new girlfriend.”  
The surprise was clear on everyone’s face but no one showed shock quite as beautifully as Jean Prouvaire.  
They jolted, shaking Grantaire and hitting their knee against the table. That pain would register in a moment. For the time being they were trying desperately to understand what Feuilly was saying – because their shocked lips had squeaked a quiet “what?” and the answer was being given.  
“… Sometime last week. Think her name’s El… Elise or something. He doesn’t talk about her much but he’s always talking to her. It’s getting exhausting.”  
Everyone looked from Jehan to Feuilly, as if this was some form of entertainment. Waiting for the next reaction.  
Grantaire cleared his throat and said what they were all thinking.  
“Feuilly, we all thought you two were a thing.”  
Feuilly snorted. “Nah. I can see why you’d think that but I – he’s not my type.”  
“What is your type?” Courfeyrac asked, still holding a pen centimetres from the paper he was writing on. Feuilly shrugged.  
“I can’t say that without giving away who I like.”  
“Tell us,” Joly said, voice louder than expected. “Feuilly, tell us.”  
The man sat back, frowning. “Why do you want to know?”  
They couldn’t answer that without Jehan’s permission so there was an uncomfortable silence.  
“Guys?”  
Fortunately, Bahorel returned. “What’s up?”  
“You have a girlfriend?” Grantaire asked, taking the lead. Bahorel shrugged.  
“Indeed.”  
“Baz, they thought we were going out and now they want me to tell them about me,” Feuilly muttered, looking down at the table. Jehan was staring at him and hadn’t taken a breath in minutes. Grantaire noticed and patted their back firmly, trying to shock some life into them.  
“Oh,” Bahorel muttered, sitting down again. “Well. Do.”  
“I can’t!”  
“Why not?”  
“Is it one of us?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning right over the table. “Because that would narrow the field somewhat.”  
Feuilly groaned. Put his head on the table. Nodded.  
“Do you want me to say it?” Bahorel asked, nudging him. He just shrugged. “It’s not going to kill you if they know.”  
“It might kill us if we don’t know,” Grantaire pressed, all but crushing Jehan to his chest. “Tell us, Baz.”  
Feuilly groaned but nodded. And, blushing with the responsibility of it all, Bahorel spoke directly to Grantaire.  
“Feuilly has had a mad crush on – on one of you since he first joined the society,” he explained, eyes dancing down to Jehan. Who was not looking at anyone. Grantaire noticed and raised his eyebrows – Bahorel nodded. “Jehan?”  
They looked up instinctively, eyes wide and red and leaking tears. This was hurting them like a knife twisting in their arm. Bahorel spoke calmly and clearly, letting there be no confusion.  
“Jehan, lovely, Feuilly fell in love with you years ago. When you nearly got ran over last week he lost his shit.”  
The silence was extended and deep. No one seemed to breathe because everyone knew how Jehan felt – no one knew how they would react.  
Grantaire was holding them incredibly tightly.  
Feuilly wouldn’t look up.  
Bahorel was blushing, hoping desperately that this wouldn’t back-fire.  
Some minutes passed.  
And then, feeding the anticipation, Jehan freed themselves from Grantaire and got to their feet. The first sound in minutes was the scraping of Grantaire’s chair – he wasn’t going to let Jehan get more than thirty centimetres away from him – as he rose to follow.  
He followed them around the table – to Feuilly.  
They crouched down. Those who couldn’t see any more got to their feet as silently as possible, praying that this was going to go well.  
Jehan touched Feuilly’s worn hand lightly, the delicately painted fingernails contrasting beautifully with the calluses of overwork.   
Feuilly looked up, tearstained and pale.  
Grantaire saw the moment of relief flash over Jehan’s face an instant before they reached with delicate hands to touch Feuilly’s cheek, making him gasp, and kissed him.  
The table erupted in cheers, none louder than Bahorel and Grantaire’s. They practically screamed, clinging to each other and watching their friends with all of the love in the world.  
They kept kissing.  
Courfeyrac boomed a laugh and muttered something about unexpected. They were still kissing and, feeling that he was no longer needed, Grantaire returned to his seat. Joly gave him a smile and no one caught the wistful way Enjolras’s eyes landed back on the artist.  
The pair finally broke apart in a fit of laughter. No one really listened to what they said to each other, feeling like this first moment between them as a couple was too personal to be observed.  
They were happy. The months of pining had passed and they were rewarded with each other.


End file.
